The Face of the Earth

by Deborah Raney

  He sensed the layers of meaning in her apology, but now wasn’t the time to unravel them. “I want to ask you––” His sigh came out heavier than he intended. “The things you said . . . Please don’t do anything rash, Shelley. I know you said those things thinking we might be bringing Jill home with us. But—I don’t want you to feel like you made promises to me that you have to keep. I think we were doing okay before this all happened. Weren’t we?”

  “I don’t know, Mitch. Sometimes I think we were, and other times . . .” She shrugged and worried the hem of her shirt.

  “Can I just ask you––for now––don’t let me come home someday and find a Realtor’s sign in your front yard . . . without talking to me first. Okay?”

  She shot him an are-you-kidding-me? look. “Oh, my goodness. Look who’s talking!” But she was laughing, too.

  He grinned, his spirits already buoyed.

  The door to Shelley’s house flew open and Audrey jogged down the walk.

  “I’ll let you go,” he said. “Thanks again.”

  “Take care, Mitch. Thanks for the curbside service.”

  She climbed from the car and greeted her daughter with a warm hug.

  He watched them for a moment, feeling warmed. And yet feeling the deep ache of loneliness at the same time.

  “Dad? Is that you?”

  Mitch had been home all of ten minutes when TP’s ears perked and he trotted out to the kitchen. The back door slammed and Mitch heard Katie baby-talking the dog and tossing her shoes and bag on the mudroom floor.

  “In here, Katiebug.” Mitch inhaled, steeling himself to answer Katie’s questions about what had happened at the lake.

  He met her in the kitchen and gave her a hug that filled in a nice corner of the pocket of loneliness he’d felt watching Shelley hug Audrey earlier.

  “So what was the deal at the lake?” Her demeanor told him she suspected more than he’d told her.

  “Have you talked to Evan?”

  “No. What happened?”

  “Your brother got the bright idea to take some of his friends down to the lake for the weekend without checking it out with me.”

  Katie gave a little gasp. “Are you kidding me? Oh, man, his butt is so grounded.”

  He rolled his eyes. “That it is. And for future reference . . .” He pulled Evan’s keys to the cabin from his pocket. “These are mine now, and you can just turn yours in, too, if you have any idea of a similar trip in your future.”

  “You think I’m stupid?”

  He reached to give her another hug. “No, I don’t. I think you are my very bright and obedient fair-haired child.”

  “I bet you say that to all your daughters.”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  “So you went down there just to get his keys?”

  “No. We went down there because . . . there was someone staying in the cabin when Evan got there. Evan thought––” He swallowed hard. “He thought it might be Mom.”

  “What? What do you mean?” She looked stricken.

  “There were some women’s clothes and some of Mom’s toiletries had been used.” He hesitated, debating whether to tell her about Becky Marley. Katie and Becky had played together at the lake when they were little girls. But if he didn’t tell her, Evan no doubt would. He leveled a stern I-mean-it look at her. “Don’t say anything to anyone until we know for sure, but it looks like it might have been Becky Marley.”

  He told her about Wayne’s discovery.

  “Are you kidding?” Katie responded the same way she did when her friends shared a morsel of juicy gossip. But then she sobered and looked him in the eye. “They’re not going to find her, are they, Dad? They’re not going to find Mom.” She said it so matter-of-factly, it broke his heart.

  “I don’t know, honey. I just don’t know.”

  “I don’t want to not have faith that God could bring her back. But . . . I’m starting to think maybe He’s––not going to. I’m starting to think maybe Mom’s in Heaven.” Her voice broke and she stood looking at him with those beautiful, so-like-Jill’s blue eyes brimming.

  Mitch scrubbed at the two-day beard he was sporting. If she was looking for him to build her faith back up, to tell her to hold out hope, and keep believing, he had nothing to offer.

  But maybe, like him, she needed someone to give her permission to abandon hope. He took the plunge. “I’m starting to think the same thing, honey. I think . . . maybe we have to just leave it in God’s hands now.” He put an arm around her and squeezed her close. “And trust that He knows what He’s doing, even when we can’t begin to imagine how any of this could be part of God’s plan.”

  Oh, Lord, be with this precious girl. And God . . . Help me to feel the conviction of my own words.

  Chapter 36

  Tuesday, June 28

  The phone was ringing when Mitch walked in the back door from work.

  “I’ve got it!” Katie hollered from the family room where she was watching some reality show. Mitch fed TP and went to put his briefcase in the den.

  A few seconds later Katie appeared in his doorway with the handset to the landline phone. “It’s for you, Dad.” Something about her expression gave him pause.

  In the week and a half since he’d returned from the cabin, he and Katie had bonded––maybe because a door had been opened for them to talk more openly about Jill. He was sure their mutual concern about Evan was a factor too.

  He and Shelley, by mutual agreement, had only seen each other briefly since they’d come home from the lake. They’d agreed to spend some time apart, reflecting and praying, asking God for direction in their lives before they talked again.

  He hoped these days had been as full of peace for her as they had for him.

  Katie handed him the phone with a shrug that said she didn’t know who it was.

  He answered and Katie gave a little wave and went back down the hall.

  “Is this . . . Mitchell Brannon?” The female voice seemed hesitant.

  “Yes, it is.” The caller ID showed a name he wasn’t familiar with. Vernon Pritchell. He’d become very cautious about answering the phone since getting some strange calls after Jill’s story had hit the news. In those early days––especially after Katie had been on the receiving end of some weirdo’s call––he’d considered changing his phone number. But Detective Simonides had advised against it on the chance that Jill might try to call home.

  Thankfully, those calls had subsided significantly in recent months. Still, he was on his guard. “Who’s calling, please?”

  “My name is Marjorie Pritchell.”

  He checked the Caller ID again. The number had a Missouri prefix.

  “This might sound a little strange, but I came across something today that I thought you would want to know about. I suppose I should be sure I have the right person first . . .” She cleared her throat. “This is the Mitchell Brannon who is married to Jill Brannon––that woman who went missing in September of last year?”

  His guard edged up several notches. “Yes . . . that’s right. What’s this about?” Mitch wasn’t about to give out any information until he knew what she wanted.

  “Well, I hope your wife has been found and everything is okay . . .”

  His better judgment said to be suspicious, but his curiosity won over good judgment. “No, unfortunately, Jill has never been found.”

  “Oh, gracious! I’m so sorry to hear that. Well, I hope this isn’t upsetting for you, but I was wrapping some glassware here in the shop this afternoon . . . I run Pritchell Antiques southeast of Camford. Are you familiar with us? You’re from Sylvia, right? That’s what the paper said.”

  He managed to slip a quick “Yes” in between her ramblings. Camford was a good three-hour drive.

  “I’m sorry.” Nervous laughter filled the line. “I have a dealer there in Sylvia that I get some of my antiques from. And I really will get to my point. I just wanted to be sure I had the right person before I launche
d into this whole story.”

  “Yes. I’m Jill’s husband. Now what is this about, please?”

  “You see, I was wrapping some glassware, and came across a picture of your wife in one of the old newspapers I was using for wrapping.”

  He had no idea what wrapping glassware had to do with Jill, but the woman certainly had his attention. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand . . .”

  “The photograph was with the article in the paper . . . about her having gone missing. I looked online and tried to find anything about her ever being found, but when I didn’t, I thought I should let you know.”

  “About finding her picture?” What was she getting at? Simonides had told him about several calls from psychics and mediums who claimed they could lead police to Jill. According to the detective that sort of “lead” came with the territory. He’d said they took every call seriously until they had reason to do otherwise. “Are you saying you have some information about Jill?” This woman didn’t sound like a nut case, but he was still cautious.

  She gave a muffled gasp. “Oh, dear . . . so you really haven’t found her yet?”

  “No, ma’am we haven’t.”

  “The thing is, I saw her the day she disappeared.”

  “You saw her? Where? Did you contact the police?” It was an effort to keep his voice steady. There was no steadying his heart.

  “No. Like I said, I just now came across this today as I was wrapping some crystal to mail out some eBay purchases.”

  “Yes,” he said. It took everything in him not to shout “Get to the point, lady!” into the phone. What was this about?

  “Well,” she said, “It’s a wonder I even happened to see this article. It was in one of the Sunday papers.”

  “But how do you know you saw her? Where did you see her?”

  “That’s just it. I thought to myself, ‘Where have I seen that woman before?’ And of course, then I remembered it was right here at the store. She came in that day. I don’t remember for sure what time it was, but I’m guessing it would have been afternoon because I worked in the stockroom most of that morning, so I wouldn’t have seen her if she came in before two o’clock or so.”

  “You’re sure . . . it was her?”

  “Oh, I’m positive.”

  “And you’re sure about the day she was there?” It seemed odd that the woman would recall so many details about something that happened ten months ago.

  “I didn’t make the connection at first, but then when I remembered what she bought, I went looking for the receipt. It wasn’t my booth she bought it from, but I keep receipts for all my dealers. Well! I checked the receipts for that day and that jogged my memory. I’m certain it was her. I can show you the receipts if you like.”

  “How late do you stay open today?”

  “We close in half an hour.”

  He looked at his watch. “I don’t think I could be there before eight.”

  “If you can come tonight, I’ll be glad to meet you at the store.”

  Chapter 37

  Pulling into a parking space in front of Pritchell’s Antiques, Mitch tried to steady his shaking hands. “We were so close, Jill,” he whispered. “So close.”

  He and Shelley had been not two miles from this spot on one of their search trips last winter when they’d traveled the state talking to teachers. Two miles. And yet, if they’d tried to stop at every store, every school, every gas station, every park along the way, they would still be working their way back from Kansas City.

  In some ways, it comforted him to realize that they’d taken on an exhausting, impossible task in trying to search for Jill. Still, they’d tried so hard . . .

  He took a deep breath and blew it out, then climbed out of the car. The Closed sign was hanging inside the door, but Mitch tried the latch and the door swung open to the musty, not unpleasant smell of ancient dust and mold and lemon polish.

  An attractive woman with snow white hair looked up when they came in. She came out from behind the counter to greet them. “I’m Marjorie Pritchell. You must be Mr. Brannon.”

  He shook her hand. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me so late.”

  She greeted him warmly and went back behind a checkout counter that held an ornate antique cash register. “Let me show you what I have here.” Smudged reading glasses hung from a chain around her neck and she slipped them on her nose before pressing a key on the register. The drawer popped open with a ding.

  “The thing is, my husband and I left for Venice––a four a.m. flight––on the Saturday of Labor Day weekend.” She launched into a more detailed version of the story she’d told Mitch on the phone. “But we didn’t stop our subscription to the Missourian while we were gone. They like to read it here in the shop––and of course, it makes such good packing material, don’t you know? So we just had the woman who manages the shop for us put the newspapers in the bin. Anyway, wouldn’t you know, I came across that picture and one thing led to another and here you are!”

  With manicured fingertips, she slipped a small stack of papers from under the cash tray and laid them on the counter. “Here’s the receipt. I gave your wife the carbon copy.” She handed it to him.

  The receipt, handwritten in a feminine cursive, was for an “ornate 4-inch magnifying glass.” It had cost eighteen dollars.

  “Your wife was a delightful woman. We had a lovely visit.” She pointed to the receipt. “I’m partial to magnifying glasses, too. This was a nice piece. I remember because I’d considered buying it from my dealer. To be honest, I was a little hesitant to let it go. But your wife seemed so excited about finding it. And when she said it was for a friend who collected them, I was glad it was going to someone who would enjoy and appreciate it.”

  For a friend. Shelley. Jill had bought it for Shelley. He listened in awe, picturing it all, feeling like Jill had given him a gift as well––this glimpse into what may have been her final hours.

  Mrs. Pritchell slipped her glasses on and looked at the receipt again. “You can see that she paid cash for the item, so there wasn’t a name on the receipt, but I keep a sign-up sheet here on the counter”––she tapped a clipboard lying near the cash register––“for people who want to get my newsletter and information about special sales. So I looked through my old mailing lists. When I saw that story in the newspaper, I was just sure it had to be the same woman. And sure enough, she was on the list.”

  She pulled a folded sheet of paper from the pile the receipt had been in. “See there? Jill Brannon, Sylvia, Missouri. When I looked at the date the paper said she went missing, and then when I realized it was the same time we were away in Italy, I realized that’s why I’d never seen it on the news. I asked the gals that work for me about it, and they all remembered seeing the story on the news, but of course they didn’t remember her coming in to the shop.”

  “Thank you so much for contacting me.” He found it difficult to speak. “May I have these receipts and the list? Or at least copies of them?” The newsletter sign-up was in Jill’s handwriting. He felt like he was holding a precious document.

  “I’ve already made copies for myself. You may keep those. I thought you might like to have them.”

  “Thank you. This is the first real lead we’ve had.” He turned to the proprietor, suddenly aware of the profound evidence he held in his hands. “I need to make some phone calls.”

  She nodded. Mitch thanked her again, and took a business card from the counter.

  Back in the car, he sat for a long minute, stunned, barely able to imagine what the surreal discoveries of these past few days might have launched.

  He quickly found his voice when Detective Cody Fredriks answered his phone.

  Wednesday, June 29

  Not only did Detective Fredriks show up at Pritchell Antiques the following day, but Marcus Simonides was with him, along with a small retinue of law enforcement officers and investigators. The case had been reopened and a new search ordered along the main routes between the antiq
ue store and Sylvia. It was still a broad area, with dozens of county roads and smaller rural capillaries to search, but the evidence that Jill had made it as far as Pritchell’s had greatly reduced the square miles to be searched.

  And it lent new strength to Greg Hamaker’s alibi, too. “If Jill made it that far,” Simonides said, “if she was at that antique shop––alive and well––when the owner says she was, there’s no way Hamaker could have been involved.”

  The antique store owner’s discovery seemed to have lit a new fire under the Highway Patrol’s Missing Persons Unit, and now, with the search area tightened, the possibilities for what could have happened to Jill were narrowed.

  Simonides warned Mitch that the area was rife with washed out county roads, meth labs, large deer populations––and at the height of summer, the wooded landscape was overgrown. The going would be slow.

  Mitch and Shelley both took Thursday off from work––it was a wonder they both still had their jobs––and made the three-hour drive again to meet the detectives at the antique store.

  It was around ten when they arrived and the searchers had already been at work for an hour.

  Mitch apologized to Mrs. Pritchell for turning her shop into search headquarters. But the proprietor had been gracious and helpful, and even brought cookies and iced tea for the small search team––mostly local law enforcement––that had gathered.

  Mitch and Shelley spent the day driving the web of county roads, trying to stay one step behind the searchers and thus out of their way, yet still available to help if they were needed. After the team had come in from a first––unsuccessful––day of combing the back roads, Simonides pulled Mitch aside. “I want to be frank with you . . .”

  Mitch saved him the burden of having to speak the words. “You’re not expecting to find her alive. I understand.”

  “Just so you don’t hold out unrealistic hope.”

  Given how everything had happened, it was difficult not to hold out “unrealistic hope.” And yet, it struck Mitch––and was painful to realize––that at this point any kind of closure, anything that would assure him that Jill had not suffered, any news that would offer his children and Jill’s parents comfort, would be a small hope fulfilled.